


Gone On Arrival

by Hsuany



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Alternative Universe - FBI, Coercion, Dubious Consent, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Rape/Non-con Elements, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-06
Updated: 2014-02-06
Packaged: 2018-01-11 08:20:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1170808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hsuany/pseuds/Hsuany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They had stepped into the box prepared, expecting the kid to request an attorney immediately and rebuff all questions regarding The Wolf Pack with smug variations of ‘I’m not saying shit.’</p>
<p>Turns out, the problem isn’t whether or not they could get Stiles Stilinski to talk. Forty minutes into the interrogation and Stiles hasn’t <i>stopped</i> talking—spinning words in a dazzling display of verbal acrobatics, unleashing a frankly impressive array of double entendre jokes, and detailing the entire history of the male circumcision.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gone On Arrival

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ScatteredMuse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScatteredMuse/gifts).



> Sarah this is all your fault. Kind of.

They had stepped into the box prepared, expecting the kid to request an attorney immediately and rebuff all questions regarding The Wolf Pack with smug variations of ‘I’m not saying shit.’

Turns out, the problem isn’t whether or not they could get Stiles Stilinski to talk. Forty minutes into the interrogation and Stiles hasn’t _stopped_ talking—spinning words in a dazzling display of verbal acrobatics, unleashing a frankly impressive array of double entendre jokes, and detailing the entire history of the male circumcision.

“—And that’s the story of how we found out Scott is allergic to red food dye number 40,” Stiles concludes, relaxing back in the metal chair and resting his hands—cuffed at the wrists—over his head. “Did you know that, Agent McCall?”

“No, I didn’t,” Rafael admits, voice terse.

“That was _very_ informative,” Peter drawls, pen scribbling across his notepad, completing his doodle of a fat cat wearing a monocle.

“Isn’t it?” Stiles chirps. “The more you know.” 

“I’ve stepped on a lot of toes in order to stay on this case, Stiles. My supervisors could take it off my hands any day now. And once they hand it off, I can’t help you anymore. All of you. Lydia Martin, Allison Argent, Isaac Lahey, Daniel Mahealani...” Rafael’s voice drops lower as he counts off each identified member of The Wolf Pack. “If you work with me, give me _something_ of value, I can make arrangements. I know you feel like you need to protect Scott—”

“You don’t know anything about me,” Stiles interrupts with a smile that borders on a sneer. “Or Scott, for that matter.” 

“You’re committing serious crimes,” Rafael emphasizes. “And if you don’t cooperate with the investigation, all of you will end up in prison for a very long time. Do you understand?”

“Oh, I understand,” Stiles mocks. “I understand the beautiful hypocrisy of it all. The two of you in your nice suits and your shiny badges. F-B-I. Bet you feel pretty important, huh? Superior? You cheating piece of shit, running out on your pregnant wife for a twenty year old. And _you_ —” Stiles glances over his shoulder at Peter. “All those misconduct charges just swept under the carpet. False arrests, intimidation, assault… you’re a real piece of work, Agent Hale. You’re both bad men, did things I would never dream of, and yet you get to sit here and give me morality lectures?”

“You do rob people for a living,” Peter says with a placid smile, completely nonplussed by the slew of accusations.

“‘Rob’ is a very subjective word,” Stiles folds out his hands as much as the cuffs would allow. “Considering the entire social infrastructure of our country is set up so that the powerful can continuously rob and subjugate the weak. All we’re doing is challenging the system.” 

Peter flips his notepad shut and pushes himself up from his chair. “It’s cute that you think of yourselves as modern day Robin Hoods.” The heels of his dress shoes click against the floor as he approaches Stiles from behind. “The sad truth is, you’re all just whiny little tit suckers with daddy issues, isn’t that right?”

His hand lashes out without warning, fingers gripping a handful of Stiles’ hair and yanking his head backwards, exposing the pale white of his throat, the nervous bobbing Adam’s apple. 

“I guess you’re the bad cop of this dynamic duo?” Stiles hisses, wincing at the mercilessly rough hold. 

“No.” Peter leans forward, puts his face right next to Stiles and speaks directly into Stiles’ ear, close enough that Stiles can smell the spicy altoid in his mouth, feel the rough brush of his stubble. “I’m the bored cop. And I think it’s time we try a different method.” 

He reaches inside his jacket and pulls out a plastic ziplock bag, dangles it in front of Stiles’ face so Stiles can get a good look at the white powder inside. “Confiscated this from your car. Looks pretty illicit to me.” 

“Really?” Stiles grits his teeth and narrows his eyes. “Planting evidence? That’s the best you’ve got?” 

Peter shoves Stiles forward and releases his hair in one swift motion. Stiles’ hands immediately go up to rub at his burning scalp. He glares daggers at Peter as he exits the interrogation room, only to return with a box of— 

Latex gloves. 

The glare falters from Stiles’ face. 

“I have reason to suspect you might be carrying contraband on your person,” Peter says mildly, pulling out a glove from the box. “What do you think, Rafe?”

“I think you’re right,” Rafael agrees. “Evidence certainly suggests so.” 

“I don’t have any drugs up my ass, you chicken shits!” Stiles shouts.

“You sure? Lying to a federal agent alone will get you five to eight, Stiles.” The glove squelches and snaps as Peter pulls it down over his wrist. 

“Hey, hey wait—!” Stiles protests as Peter hauls him up by the back of his shirt and forcibly bends him over the edge of the table. Stiles thrashes, struggling to push himself up on his elbows when Rafael reaches out and hooks his fingers around the chain of the handcuffs, dragging Stiles back down against the tabletop, arms stretched out in front of him. 

One of Peter’s hands is pressed squarely into the center of Stiles’ back, while the other is snaking under him to undo his belt, “—Sonuva _bitch_ —!” Stiles curses when his pants and boxers are taken down past his knees and to his ankles, the chill of air conditioning rushing over his heated skin. 

“Hold still,” Peter’s voice commands sharply from behind. “Unless you’d rather I do this the _hard_ way.” 

Stiles swallows thickly, and stills his limbs. 

The hand that made quick work of his pants touches down on his calf, follows the curve of muscle up to the dip at the back of his knee. Higher and higher, trailing along the inside of his thigh, leaving goosebumps in its wake, and sliding into the crevasse between his legs... only to move downwards against the back of his thigh again. The caressing touch is a bizarre contrast to the rough manhandling he’s been subjected to up until now; angry brown eyes shift upwards to glare at Rafael sitting nonchalantly against the edge of the table. The man stares back at him, oppressive gaze pinning Stiles to the table with as much weight as the hands holding him in place. 

“I told you,” Rafael reminds him in a quiet murmur. “Everything would go much smoother if you’d just cooperate.”

A latex covered thumb brushes lightly against his puckered entrance, forcing a shuddering breath out of Stiles’ throat, and he balls his hands into white-knuckled fists, snarls down against the table, “You want me to sell out my friends, my _family?_ ” 

“Scott is my family, too.” 

“Go _fuck yourself,_ ” Stiles spits out, and is answered by two thick fingers pressing into him. His teeth sink down hard into his bottom lip but he only manages to partially contain himself, voice leaking out in a half-muffled groan. The fingers twist and curl, pulling completely out and entering again, angling deep for the hidden sweet spot, and Stiles' eyes squeeze shut, hands shaking, metal cuffs rattling against metal tabletop. 

Rafael’s face is impassive as he watches, reaching into his jacket to pull out a lighter and a pack of Marlboros. “You don’t mind do you, Pete?” he asks, holding up the smokes before dumping one out and placing it between his teeth.

“Not at all,” Peter responds hospitably, arm moving as he works his wrist, producing slick, wet sounds with each methodical push and pull.

Rafael lights up, takes a long drag and exhales the smoke downwards against Stiles’ face, one hand carding through Stiles’ tousled hair. “Tell me where we can find the rest of The Wolf Pack, Stiles.” 

Stiles’ breathing is rushing out in harsh pants now, shoulders rising and falling with each successive gasp, but he stays silent, doesn’t say a single word.

“Suddenly you’ve got nothing to say? Your little anecdotes and snappy comebacks were so delightful….” Rafael leans down, lips hovering against the shell of Stiles’ ear and whispers, “It’s because you’re getting off on this, aren’t you?”

The red blooming across Stiles’ face is spreading all the way down his neck. He dips his head to hide his face between outstretched arms, but he can’t hide the way his spine is arching, the way his thighs are parting on their own accord, the way his hips are starting to bump back against the invading fingers.

“Like I said.” Peter’s head tilts as he regards the flushed body trembling and squirming before him. “Nothing but little boys with daddy issues, acting out so you could be caught and punished.” 

Fingers still buried inside Stiles, his other hand raises high and lands a resounding smack against the vulnerable flesh of Stiles’ buttocks. 

Stiles cries out, one sharp, clear, “ _Aahh!_ ” the shout bouncing off the soundproof walls. Peter doesn’t give him any time to recover, pulls his hand back and spanks him again and again, all the while still fucking him open with his fingers. Peter doesn’t stop hitting him until the boy’s ass cheeks are burning red and covered in hand prints, until Stiles is hard and leaking, futilely trying to rub his erection up against the cool metal edge of the table, desperate for friction, for relief, for _anything._

“Filthy little thing, getting off on being violated like this, harbored this fantasy for long?” 

“You want to beg for it, don’t you?” 

Two pairs of hands shift over him, grabbing him by the shoulders and hips and turning Stiles onto his back. His pants are yanked off, shirt tugged up, and he’s splayed out on the table on full display. 

There’s a soft rustling as Rafael tugs loose the knot of his tie, pulls it from his neck and wraps the silken strip over Stiles’ eyes, tying it behind the boy’s head. Unable to see, the only thing Stiles can do is feel—feel the rough palms roaming his body, teeth and tongues and wet mouths scraping across his neck and collarbone, skating over his navel, sucking down on his nipples, but never, never touching his cock. He rolls his hips and fights back a whine, twisting against the nails raking down his sides. Fingers are driving into him again—three this time— faster and faster. More fingers, tracing over his lips, moving into his mouth, a thumb stroking over his tongue. A hand grips at his hair to drag his head sideways and the digits are replaced by something much larger and thicker, thrusting itself in against the back of his throat, and Stiles gags around it, saliva pooling out and running down his chin. 

His legs are hiked up, ankles against a set of broad shoulders and then he’s split open, fucked into from above and below, the cock stretching his hole open and the cock filling his mouth pumping in and out in a dizzying frenzy. He gasps and chokes and he takes it and takes it until the pressure between his legs relents, and spurts of warm liquid land against his stomach and chest. The fullness in his mouth retreats shortly after, sticky wetness splattering across his mouth and nose.

The air is stagnant with the smell of sex and the sounds of haggard breathing. The reprieve is brief and the hands are on him again, shifting Stiles off the table and seating his limp-boned frame up against the chair. 

Stiles winces at the weight being put on his sore bottom, shoulders sagging in relief when he hears the sound of keys jingling and the cuffs snapping open, only to feel his arms being shifted and rearranged behind the chair and cuffed up again. 

“I think it’s time for a coffee break,” Peter’s voice says evenly, without a hint of winded exertion. 

“What the— _Hey!_ ” Stiles struggles against his bonds, whipping his head this way and that, trying to determine which direction to shout in. “You fuckers, at least finish me off!”

“If you tell us what we want to know, we’ll consider letting you come,” Rafael’s voice replies. 

The door creaks open then slams firmly shut, leaving Stiles alone in the box, blindfolded and cuffed to the chair, hot cum dripping sluggishly down his face and chest. 

Painfully hard and unable to touch himself. 

The door opens and shuts several more times; each time Stiles is thrust to the edge, brought to the brink of climax, breath seizing in his chest, thighs tensing, back arching— 

And everything stops abruptly. 

He curses, yells, screams, thrashes and then— 

It starts all over again. 

He doesn’t know how long it’s been, lost in the spiraling darkness. He’s on his back on the table again, legs pushed wide open, two mouths on his cock, tongues lapping languidly up each side, taking turns sucking down on him, never with enough pressure to satisfy, and finally _finally_ Stiles breaks, sobbing and begging, completely undone from the torturous pleasure. 

“I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you everything, please, please!”

“Please, what?”

“Please just _let me come,_ ” he gasps his breathless surrender. 

The mouths on him curve into smiles, and someone says, 

“Good boy.”

+

By the time the task force breaks into the locked down warehouse it’s been completely cleared out. The only thing left in it is one table, and sitting on top of the table is a lone laptop, screen open but dark.

Rafael and Peter lower their guns, taking slow, cautious steps forward. 

“Could be rigged to explode,” Peter says. 

“No. They’re thieves and hackers, not murderers.” Rafael reaches out to touch the mouse pad, and the computer blinks to life.

Music blares from the speakers, sending both agents reeling back involuntarily. 

_Never gonna give you up_  
 _Never gonna let you down_  
 _Never gonna run around and desert you!_

_Never gonna make you cry_  
 _Never gonna say goodbye_  
 _Never gonna tell a lie and hurt you!_

On the screen, Rick Astley boogies in a tan trench coat. The music video cuts out, and Scott’s smiling face appears.

“Afternoon, agent douchebags! Did you really think we were sloppy enough to let one of our own get arrested from a _speed trap_? While Stiles kept you occupied we helped ourselves to some nice confidential FBI files. Oh, and, we’ve cleared both your personal saving accounts.”

Lydia Martin’s face moves into view, lipstick smile so red it looks like blood. “Thank you very much for the Louboutins. All thirty pairs.” 

“I gotta admit,” Stiles’ face squeezes in between Scott and Lydia’s, “You two might be shit investigators, but you sure know how to show a guy a good time.” He makes a pistol shape with his fingers and fires it at the screen, winking, and there’s collective groans all around him. 

Lydia blows a theatrical kiss and says, “Hugs and kisses. Wolf Pack out.”

The screen fizzes to black again, and there’s a small popping noise, before the keyboard promptly starts to smoke.

“I don’t want to say ‘I told you so’.” Peter folds his arms over his chest. “But I goddamn fucking told you so.” 

Rafael waits until they’ve canvassed the area and bagged the evidence before he sends a series of furious kicks into the back tire of his car. 

Two days later, Peter and Rafael’s phones buzz at the same time while they’re in the middle of a debriefing. They click it open, and they’ve both been sent the same message. A selfie picture of Stiles, showing only his mole dotted cheeks and crooked grin, his naked torso, and his hand reaching down into the waistband of his jeans. The text reads:

_**Ready for round 2 (or is it round 15??) when u fuckers r  
xxxo**_

**Author's Note:**

> Gif set for this fic [HERE!](http://scatteredmuse.tumblr.com/post/75842555143/after-months-of-attempting-to-dismantle-the)


End file.
